


The Centurion's Prayer

by raphae11e



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Credence is Really Fucking Gay and has no idea what to do about it, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Newt helps him out, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: "I am not worthy that thou should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed."Three times Credence "disobeys" Newt, and how those ways help him to heal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhh good Lord, have I been sucked deep back into the Harry Potter fandom with this damn movie. Seriously, like, I wasn't prepared to be blindsided by my love for these characters, it's kind of ridiculous??????? 
> 
> Anyway, I have like fifty pages of Fantastic Beasts fic that I've written and only this is finished so far. Ta da! Enjoy Newt and Credence being cute and gay and unbearably sweet to each other.

The first time Credence disobeys Mr. Scamander is when he’s feeding some of the creatures in the strange, magical suitcase he now calls home.

Mr. Scamander had introduced him to each species, and then to each individual creature, in kind. Like some sort of big, mismatched family: the magizoologist and his creatures. Not Credence, not yet. Today he’s being shown a whole new area of the case, one he’s never seen before. Pine needles and old bark crunch satisfyingly under his boots, the air thick with the scent of sap. This place seems special, somehow.

“A hippogriff,” Mr. Scamander says fondly. “Just the one. I meant to return him to his herd, but well… he seems to have grown attached. Downright refused to leave.”

Credence’s breath catches in his throat as he hears a rustling sound, and out of the trees comes one of the most beautiful creatures he has yet to see. It looks like a great bird, an eagle, but then it comes closer and he notices how sleek black feathers melt into fur. The hindquarters of a horse, dappled black and grey, appear from the shadows. Fixing him with a piercing golden stare, the hippogriff stops when it notices its visitors. It looks almost affronted that there are _others_ in its habitat.

“Now you have to be _careful_ ,” whispers Mr. Scamander fervently. “There’s a very specific set of rules you must follow. Hippogriffs are big on etiquette, and Philip is no exception.”

“ _Philip?_ ” Credence echoes, and the magizoologist smiles rather sheepishly.

“Yes, um. A regal name for a regal creature, don’t you think?” Then the smile is gone and he looks serious once more. “Now, watch me closely. Watch how I move.”

It’s amazing, really, how someone as flighty and (forgive him for thinking so) _awkward_ as Mr. Scamander is always finding new ways to surprise Credence. Instead of his normal shuffling walk he strides forward, one confident foot in front of the other, and comes to stop just a few feet in front of the hippogriff. _Philip_ , he reminds himself. Mr. Scamander is frighteningly still as the creature shifts its gaze to rest on him, regarding him almost disinterestedly. Then, moving as few of his muscles as possible, he extends a leg and bends at the waist in a modest, yet graceful, bow.

There’s a pause as Philip tilts its great head thoughtfully. Then it moves to face Mr. Scamander and Credence watches with bated breath as one clawed foot comes forward and the creature bows as well.

Mr. Scamander straightens up, a sunny laugh rising out of his throat, and he walks forward to rest a hand on Philip’s huge yellow beak.

“See? Nothing to it,” he calls over his shoulder. Credence begs to differ.

“Do I- do I need to do that?” he asks meekly.

“Oh of course,” replies Mr. Scamander. “If you want to help with Philip, that is." He tilts his head to look backwards. “I won’t force you, Credence. It’s your choice.”

For a moment he considers refusing. It would be so easy; just a shake of his head and Mr. Scamander will let him off the hook, no harm done, no judgement. But something about that makes his stomach churn guiltily. _Weak,_ say his thoughts. _Useless._ He wants so desperately to prove them wrong.

“Alright,” he says, and steps forward. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Mr. Scamander nods and moves away from the hippogriff, giving them space. “Credence, just as I showed you. Step forward and bow. Do _not_ break eye contact.”

It seems so easy when he says it like that, but Credence’s legs are weak beneath him when he moves to stand before Philip. The creature is _huge_ he realizes, now that he's closer. Mr. Scamander barely reaches its shoulder. Despite that he forces himself to remain calm, stamping down on the fear rising in his chest. He reaches the same spot where Mr. Scamander had stood and waits.

“Slowly, Credence,” he hears off to his left.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise as the hippogriff’s eyes bore into his own. It’s such an all encompassing stare that he could get lost in it. Just as he'd been shown, Credence begins to bow, and--

Under his foot there's a fallen branch, hidden beneath a thin layer of dead leaves. His ankle rolls to the side painfully. He stumbles, his eyes drawn down to the spot on the forest floor, and that's all it takes.

An unholy screech resounds off of the trees around them, followed closely by the rapid beating of wings. Credence’s head snaps up to see Philip, eyes blazing, rearing up on his hind legs to take a strike at his vulnerable form.

“ _Stop!_ ”

Suddenly Mr. Scamander is in front of him, arms stretched wide.

“Stop this _instant_ !” He shouts, and Credence has never heard him use a tone like that before. Firm, with no small amount of frustration behind it. “Philip, you heard me. I said, _stop_.”

Miraculously, the hippogriff _does_. Its claws are just inches from Mr. Scamander’s body when it jerks backwards, returning to all fours. It coughs out another screech, sounding indignant, but allows the man to approach.

“There,” he says. “Now really, that was a bit ridiculous. Credence made a good attempt, didn't he? Give him credit for that and stop being so rude.” He pats the side of Philip’s neck with an open palm and turns around. Credence can see the worry on his face, creasing between his brows and to either side of his lips. Then his vision blurs with tears and he can't see much at all.

When a sob works its way out of him Mr. Scamander lurches forward, hands outstretched. “Credence, no,” he implores. “No, none of that. It's an easy mistake to make, and quite an impressive first try. Philip is just, well, as you can see he's rather temperamental and- _Credence_.”

The second time Mr. Scamander says his name he looks up, makes an attempt to fight the tightness in his throat. “M’sorry,” he manages. “I didn't- I didn't do what you said, I should've tried _harder_ . You c-could’ve been hurt b-because of me.” _Weak. Useless._ He feels the surface of his skin itching, like something is trying to claw its way out of him.

“But I wasn’t hurt, now was I?” Mr. Scamander says matter of factly, as if the answer is that simple. “And it has nothing to do with _trying_. It was a simple mistake.”

 _Not possible_ , a voice in the back of Credence’s head insists. _It was more than a mistake, it was my_ fault _._ His shoulders shake and he curls in on himself, feels something like self loathing bubbling deep in his stomach, the ghost of his Obscurus. He fights the urge to collapse onto the forest floor.

That urge becomes considerably easier to ignore when he feels a warm, calloused hand pressed to his cheek. Mr. Scamander’s thumb rubs over the ridge of his cheekbone and he exhales shakily, feels the tension melting out of him. “There we go,” the man says under his breath. “Keep calm, love.”

 _Love._ Mr. Scamander realizes what's been said at precisely the same moment that Credence does, and the reaction it causes is extraordinary. A fierce blush rises up from under his collar, swallowing up the generous supply of freckles scattered over his cheeks and nose. The small amount of eye contact he’d been maintaining is broken as he looks away, gaze hidden under his lashes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Mr. Scamander is _beautiful_ when he's flustered, Credence marvels. Then he stomps down hard on the thought; what a sinful, _shameful_ thing to notice about another man.

It isn't until the hand cradling his face pulls away that he realizes he's stopped crying.

\---

The second time Credence disobeys Mr. Sca- _Newt,_ is when he's practicing his magic.

They're in London now, living in Newt’s little flat, though Credence still loves the open spaces and lush biomes of the suitcase. The two of them had visited Diagon Alley a few weeks ago and Newt had shown him Ollivander’s. Credence had fallen in love with the place immediately, with its high shelves overflowing with wands and the sort of electric feeling in the air. He had mentioned the feeling to Newt, and the man had grinned at him.

“The wands are all waiting for owners, you see,” he’d explained. “They get a bit eager whenever someone enters the shop. One of them will choose you, I should think.”

Choose _him?_ Credence fought the urge to gape. He couldn’t imagine something as beautiful and magical as a wand choosing him, not with the disgusting presence of the Obscurus lingering inside his chest.

It had taken a while for Ollivander to find a wand that called to him, but just as Credence was feeling miserable enough to give up, it happened. When the rush of wind and light around him had abetted, he felt like a new person. “Most interesting,” Ollivander commented. “Mahogany and kelpie hair, quite rigid. Ten inches. That wand has been sitting here since my father ran the shop. I was beginning to think it would not find an owner.”

Something about that made Credence feel special, somehow. Though he was embarrassed to admit it, his wand reminded him of himself.

Now, he’s not so sure how special he feels.

He’s been trying for days to learn from the book of spells Newt had given him. By now he’s mastered the “swish and flick” movement, he’s wrapped his tongue around the unfamiliar language of enchantments, and still-- nothing. After about his twenty-seventh attempt to cast _incendio_ he stops and, with a scoff, sits down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. When his wand makes contact with the table it spits out a few yellow sparks.

“Mocking me, are you?” Credence snaps. The wand is silent. On the table, the candle remains unlit.

Something about the pressing silence makes anger boil up from inside him. Instead of raising his wand he fixes the offending candle with a fierce stare, his brows drawn together in frustration. If it would only light, then he wouldn’t have anything to worry about. The lingering fear that perhaps maybe he _was_ unteachable, like Mr. Gra- _he_ had said, would dissipate.

If it would only _light!_

“ _Incendio!”_ he growls, brandishing his wand angrily in front of him. There’s a loud _crack_ and a bright, blinding flash of light that has Credence tipping backwards, chair clattering to the floor. He brings his arm up to shield his eyes and feels a searing _heat_ against his exposed skin. The light is gone just as quickly as it appeared. He looks up.

On the table, the candle is lit.

A relieved laugh escapes him and he staggers forward, lowering his head to inspect the tiny flame now glowing on the wick. Something so small, and yet it means so _much._

Then he looks down and notices the burnt ring scorched into the tablecloth. The soot marks on his sleeve and- he winces- the bright red burn that’s appeared on his left forearm. He hadn’t realized the spell would be quite that _strong_ when fueled by his anger. As his shock wears off the pain increases, accompanied closely by fear, and he grits his teeth. _What am I supposed to do now?_ He thinks miserably, anxiety gripping at his chest. _I’ve damaged Newt’s things, I-I’ve_ _done the spell wrong_. _He’ll know I’m useless at magic._ And what purpose will he have, if he can’t learn magic, can’t do the things Newt does with a wave of his wand?

The logical conclusion comes quite easily to mind. _He can’t find out._

His hands shaking, he quickly removes the tablecloth and washes it in the sink, making sure to clean the soot from his clothes as well. Though he’s not skilled in herbology either, not like Newt, he knows enough about herbs to know how to treat his burn. He washes it thoroughly, hissing under his breath as the pain spikes, then applies some dittany that Newt keeps in the cupboard. _Never know when you’re going to need this stuff,_ the magizoologist had said. _Mishaps crop up all the time around here._ Credence swallows hard around the panic constricting his throat.

By the time he’s done, nothing seems out of sorts. A sort of relief rushes through him. Now that everything is righted, it shouldn’t be hard to continue on as though nothing had gone wrong in the first place.

It’s easy enough to hide his injury for the first day or so. He avoids rolling up his sleeves around Newt, takes care to dress the wound only when he’s sure that he’s alone. He busies himself with the creatures and with his studies, but avoids casting any real spells. The last thing he wants is a repeat of his last attempt.

On the fourth day, however, Credence realizes he’s not taking quite as good care of the burn as he should be. When he climbs down into the case in the morning and grabs a bucket of feed from the shed, he feels a flash of pain run up his arm. He bites his lip to stifle the sound he makes, but it still catches Newt’s attention from across the room.

“Alright there, Credence?” he asks, worry rising in his voice.

“F-Fine, yes,” he replies, offering up what he hopes is a smile. The second time he lifts the bucket the pain is considerably less intense, a dull, throbbing feeling instead of the sharp needling he’d felt at first. Taking a steady breath, he marches off to the mooncalves’ pasture to start his daily routine, feeling Newt’s eyes on him the whole way.

The mooncalves have taken a liking to him, it seems, because as he enters their habitat he hears their excited squeaking long before he sees them. The small herd comes tumbling out from under a grassy outcropping, tripping over themselves in an attempt to reach him as quickly as possible. For the first time in awhile, Credence feels a genuine smile spread across his face.

“There we are,” he says quietly. He tosses some pellets into the air and watches the mooncalves catch them. “Don’t worry, you’ll all get your turn.”

He feels a nudge at his elbow as one of the mooncalves presses its wet nose against his arm. Initially he doesn’t pay it any mind, but then he feels the tug of tiny teeth and hears a high, reedy whine. Credence looks down into the mooncalf’s huge, sad eyes.

He’s about to ask what it wants when it presses his nose to his arm again and it _hurts._

 _Oh no._ Without a second thought he uncuffs his sleeve and rolls it up to reveal his burn. It’s still splotchy and red and it’s _grown._ Credence may not be well versed in medicine but he knows that must be a bad sign. His skin is still hot to the touch and feels sticky; maybe one of the blisters had burst?

“Credence?”

An icy chill creeps over his skin as he hears Newt’s footsteps behind him. “Y-Yes, um,” he starts, painfully aware of how much his voice is shaking. “I-I’m just finishing up with the mooncalves. I’ll be done in a second, sorry-”

“It’s alright, no rush,” Newt says carefully. His tone sounds cautious, like he’s approaching a wild animal. Credence can’t bear to look at him. “Credence, can I- can I come look at your arm?”

 _So that’s it, then. Nothing I can do now._ Newt’s voice is so _gentle_ , he can’t bring himself to refuse. Even despite the consequences he knows are coming. He holds out his arm wordlessly, a sign for Newt to come closer. It’s impossible to stop himself from flinching when warm fingers curl around his wrist and elbow, deftly turning his arm to inspect his wound. He bites his lip when the movement pulls at his damaged skin.

“What happened?” asks Newt softly.

“I-I-” At first it’s hard to get any words out at all, but then they start and he can’t keep them from pouring out of him. “I-I was just practicing magic, like you’d told me to, but my wand wasn’t _working_ and then- and then when the spell finally worked it was much too strong! I-I burned some of your things a-and I burned my arm and--” Suddenly he’s pulling his arm from Newt’s grip, hands darting down to grip the buckle of his belt.

Both of them are silent until Credence offers the thick belt to Newt, head down in an almost deferential gesture.

“S-Sorry,” he stutters out, focusing intently on Newt’s shoes, the way they’re caked with grass and mud. “I-I wasn’t…. I wasn’t careful enough. Please…” Newt still hasn’t taken the belt from him, so he brandishes it insistently. He’s used to the belt being snatched from his hands, used to opening his palms in a gesture of surrender, used to waiting for punishment for whatever infraction he may have committed. He remembers breaking a plate once, cutting his hands on the shards of porcelain; Ma had used the belt on his back instead, then, and he had been so grateful.

Finally he hears a rustling sound as Newt moves towards him, and he can’t help but flinch when two hands come to rest over his own, the belt between their palms.

“Credence,” murmurs Newt, and nothing else.

Realizing what’s being asked of him, Credence slowly raises his head, allowing his eyes to wander up over Newt’s vest, his shirt collar, along the curve of his jaw. When he finally brings himself to look at the man’s face, he’s shocked to see that Newt’s bright blue eyes look glassy, red rimmed around the edges.

“Being injured and in pain is _never_ a cause for punishment.” His voice wavers on the last word; he looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t quite know how to say it. Instead, Newt presses gently down on their now clasped hands, forcing the belt away.

Just like that, Credence feels himself breaking. Without another word Newt tugs him forward, wrapping him up in a gentle hug. He’s careful to avoid pressing against Credence’s burn, and somehow that makes the whole scenario more overwhelming. More _raw_. Gingerly, as if moving too fast will ruin the moment, Credence returns the embrace, fisting his hands in the soft fabric of Newt’s shirt. He presses his cheek against Newt’s shoulder and lets out a shuddering sob.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?” The words tickle over the nape of his neck, making him shiver. Unable to find his voice, Credence only nods.

The silence in the shed starts out as something unnerving, making anxiety coil deep in his belly, like he’s still waiting for a blow to fall. As Newt occupies himself with mixing a poultice, though, the silence changes. It becomes almost comfortable, companionable. Credence watches intently as the magizoologist creates a thick paste out of herbs; he looks like he’s working solely from muscle memory, not even bothering to measure out the ingredients. It dawns on him that Newt must have done this hundreds of times before because of his dangerous and unpredictable line of work. It also dawns on him that the poultice must not prevent scars from forming, because Newt has so _many_ of those, criss-crossing over his back and arms. Something hot and shameful drips down Credence’s spine and he turns his attention elsewhere.

“Let me see, love.” Newt is in front of him all of a sudden, and using that _word_ again, no less. Credence starts, feeling a flush spread over his face, but he holds his arm out regardless. The poultice feels blessedly cool against his blistering skin. Without meaning to, he allows a relieved sigh to escape his parted lips.

“There, there,” Newt intones quietly. “That’s much better, isn’t it? You should’ve told me sooner, then the burn wouldn’t be nearly this severe.”

“M’sorry,” replies Credence, his voice small. He tries not to focus too intently on the brush of Newt’s gentle fingers against his skin.

Newt _tsk_ s at that, shaking his head, though he never lifts his gaze from the task at hand. “Now, none of that,” he admonishes. “I understand your, ah… your hesitancy.” His eyes flick up and make contact with Credence’s for just a moment, peering out from underneath his wild, flyaway hair. “Just know that it’s not needed here, alright? Not _ever_.” Something in Newt’s gaze looks intense then, almost fierce. He grips Credence’s hand between his own, squeezing it, never mind the burn salve still coating his fingertips.

Credence nods dumbly. There are so many things he wants to say: thank you, what did I do to deserve you, you’re _beautiful._ He’s not sure if he can trust himself to say any of these things intelligibly. So instead he says nothing and looks away, because Newt’s eyes are suddenly too kind, too full of some emotion that Credence isn’t used to seeing directed at him.

There’s a rustling sound as Newt leans forward, hand coming to rest at the nape of Credence’s neck, and presses a kiss to the side of his head. Before Credence can stop himself he lets out a quiet, breathy “oh.” He feels dizzy with-- with _something_ , but he can’t quite place the feeling.

Newt’s mouth curls into a smile against his skin.

\---

The third time Credence disobeys Newt is after the man has been missing for three days.

It starts with a seemingly innocuous tipoff that Newt receives involving a smuggling ring in London. A _magical_ smuggling ring, of course, specializing in the distribution of fantastic beasts and their harvested parts ( _For potion making,_ Newt tells him in a tight voice). Attempting to stop Newt from answering the call for help, despite its rather suspicious anonymity, is fruitless. Credence knows him well enough now that he isn’t surprised by the loss.

“I can’t just leave this be and _hope_ that it’s a false claim,” Newt explains desperately. “You understand, don’t you Credence?”

Credence does. He just wishes Newt cared this much about his _own_ safety, and not just the safety of his magical creatures. “At least let me come with you,” he reasons. He may not be able to stop Newt from going into this situation blind, but maybe he can be there at his side in case something happens.

When Newt shakes his head at that, Credence can feel his heart sinking. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.” He looks apologetic, refusing to meet Credence’s eyes. “What if something goes wrong? I don’t- I don’t want you to be exposed to tha-”

“I’ve been practicing, Newt, you know I have!” he insists. He hears Ma’s voice in the back of his head, _don’t_ ever _interrupt_ , and he shrinks back instinctually. “I’m much better at controlling my magic now. You _know_ that.” He doesn’t want to seem too presumptuous, but hasn’t all of his schooling been leading up to something like this? A chance to prove his worth? He knows now that the Obscurus will always be a part of him, but maybe he can finally channel it into something good.

“I _do_ know,” Newt agrees, running a hand through his hair. He looks torn. “It’s just… I don’t want anything to _happen_ to you, do you understand? If something were to go awry, and you were injured, or worse, I-I don’t know if I’d be able to forgive myself.” The word all come out in a rush, like Newt’s trying to avoid even thinking of such a scenario. Finally, his eyes meet Credence’s own. “You _do_ understand, don’t you?” he says again.

Credence fidgets with the hem of his sweater, shoulders hunched. He still doesn’t like the situation one bit. Despite that, however, he can’t bring himself to argue with Newt any longer. Something on the magizoologist’s face gives him pause: a raw sense of _hurt_ , remnants of a wound that hasn’t quite healed. Credence is reminded too much of the haunted look that had been in his _own_ eyes, back when he was half starved and completely lost, not to recognize the same expression on someone else.

He wants to help with that hurt, wants Newt to trust him enough to pour out his darkest secrets. Not that a man who is so consistently bathed in _light_ would have many of those. But Credence knows better than to pry before someone is ready to share.

He also steadfastly refuses to worsen whatever suffering Newt may be dealing with, quietly, in moments when he doesn’t have to put on a brave face for friends or acquaintances (or Credence himself; frankly he doesn’t know _what_ category he fits into, now). Which is why, when Newt asks him once more, “do you understand,” his response is thus:

“Yes. I’ll stay.”

-

Three days pass. The first goes well enough, the second significantly less so, and the third… well. On the third night Credence curls up in bed, all too aware of the cold spot beside him that Newt normally occupies. He feels the dark, tumultuous motion of the Obscurus inside him and makes a decision. In the morning, he will disobey Newt a third time.

It’s all too easy, really, to do just that, thanks to Newt’s absentmindedness. He’d left the anonymous letter on the kitchen table instead of bringing it with him, and Credence holds it with shaking fingers as he reads over the meager amount of information it provides. A meeting place halfway across the city. The name of a pub, or a bar, by the looks of it. Credence gathers together the few things he’ll need for the journey: his wand, his coat, the yellow and black striped scarf Newt had given him. “The colors suit you, really,” he remembers hearing. “And I daresay you may have been a Hufflepuff had you attended Hogwarts.”

Credence blinks furiously, refusing to let his tears fall. “I _will_ find Newt,” he says aloud to the empty flat. “And he _will_ be safe.” Then he leaves, shutting the door (a bit harder than necessary) behind him.

He doesn’t quite know how to Apparate yet and isn’t willing to risk splinching himself, so he uses what Newt lovingly refers to as “muggle transportation.” Most of the journey goes by in a blur, and the next thing Credence knows he’s standing outside a dingy pub, one hand gripping his wand through the fabric of his coat. It sends a prickling sensation all the way up his arm, magic thrumming in time with the anxious beat of his heart.

Just as he’s about to grip the tarnished bronze handle of the door, however, a flash of green catches his eye. Credence looks down, a high pitched noise reaching his ears, and--

“ _Pickett?_ ”

Sure enough, the bowtruckle is scurrying towards him across the sidewalk, waving his tiny, spindly arms. Before Credence can even bend down to pick him up, Picket is crawling up his pant leg. The sounds he’s making are becoming increasingly distressed as he climbs higher, and something like dread settles over Credence’s bones. Pickett _never_ leaves Newt’s side unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“What’s happened? Where is he?” It’s hard to keep still enough for the tiny creature to secure a spot under his coat collar. His whole body feels like it’s about to come apart at any moment. Pickett doesn’t seem to mind, though; he titters nervously, tugging at the fabric of Credence’s scarf and pointing to the right. _Past_ the pub, and towards an equally dingy alleyway. It turns out to be, apart from a few dirty garbage bins, surprisingly empty. But Pickett is still gesturing insistently, and he realizes the real destination is not the alley at all, but something just beyond it. Tucked behind the pub is a small warehouse.

“In there?” he breathes. Pickett makes a noise of agreement in his ear and Credence makes his way to the dented door of the building.

Just as he wraps his fingers around the grimy doorknob, a muffled scream rings out from inside the warehouse. Then it is abruptly silenced.

Credence flings open the door to see Newt, gagged, his hands and legs tied tightly to the chair he’s seated in. Even from this far away the rapid rise and fall of his chest is clearly visible. Crowded around him are three men, one with his wand raised menacingly, and he’s halfway through verbalizing what Credence _knows_ to be the Cruciatus curse when he stops, turning to face the doorway. The other two men do the same, their eyes widening in terror.

“Who the _fuck_ -”

The meager grip he has on the roiling, heaving mess of magic inside him gives way. The Obscurus breaks free, and Credence sees _red._

All three men die with their screams choked in their throats, lungs filled with black sand, eyes and skin burned to cinders. He watches them die from a seemingly infinite number of angles, as if he’s everywhere at once. As the bodies slump to the floor he wants nothing more than to tear them apart with his bare hands, and he feels the Obscurus pressing outwards, filling the room, eager to carry out his wishes. His teeth are bared in what feels like a grin. It’s wild and feral and completely _wrong_ on his face.

Then he hears Newt shouting from behind his gag, and everything comes to a grinding halt.

The Obscurus pauses midair, held in a sort of suspended animation as it collapses in on itself again and again and again. Apart from its quiet hissing, the room is silent. With what feels like an immense amount of effort, Credence shifts his gaze to rest on Newt’s face. His eyes are wide and so, so blue, the color contrasting starkly with the blood caking the side of his head. The Obscurus _howls_.

Newt can barely speak around the fabric stuffed in his mouth, but he only says one word. Then he says it again. Two syllables.

_Credence._

Returning to his body in a situation like this is difficult, but he manages. _I need to help Newt,_ he thinks, using the sentence like a mantra. A prayer. All of a sudden he’s put back together, back in his gangly, ugly form, swaying a bit on his feet. A few fingers of shadow coalescing on the floor underneath him are all that remain of the Obscurus. They curl possessively up over the legs of the chair as he rushes to Newt’s side, hurriedly removing the disgusting, _horrid_ gag from his mouth.

The first words out of his mouth are, “Credence, are you alright?” It makes something in Credence’s chest _ache_. He manages a stiff sort of nod, fingers fumbling with the ropes knotted around Newt’s wrists and ankles.

“My case,” Newt says desperately. His voice sounds hoarse, like he's been screaming-- Credence stops that train of thought before it can go any further. “Please, i-it’s in the corner, bring it here. Please.”

Though he's loathe to leave Newt’s side (he hasn't yet untied the knots, his fingers are still too clumsy), Credence retrieves the suitcase. It's singed and a bit battered around the edges, but otherwise unharmed.

“Oh, Merlin’s beard-” As soon as Newt is free he's grabbing for the case, clutching it with shaking hands. “It's safe. They tried to- I thought they-” He looks like he's about to _cry_.

Credence clears his throat; his mouth feels like it's full of glass. “What happened?” he asks, surprised at the anger in his voice. Not directed at Newt, not ever. At _them_. The bodies that lie scattered around the room, smoke still rising from their skin.

Newt slumps back in his chair, his suitcase resting on his lap. With one hand he reaches up to scrub at his forehead, smearing the half dried blood there, and he looks hard at the floor. His eyes are glazed, unfocused. Credence spares a panicked thought for the possibility of a concussion.

“I…” Newt begins, wincing when his fingers press against the wound on his temple. They come away wet with blood. “Y-You were right, of course. I should have listened. These men here, they’re- they _were_ \- smugglers that lured me here in the hopes of obtaining my collection of creatures.” He swallows hard, and his grip on the case tightens. “They ah, they reacted rather poorly when I refused to dispel the wards. So then they tried to destroy it.” Newt smiles, but it's wan and tight, with none of its usual warmth.

“And they hurt you?” Credence insists. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear it anyway.

“Well.” Newt gestures to his face. “Yes, a bit.”

“They used an Unforgivable curse, didn't they?”

Newt winces and somehow manages to look _guilty_ , like it's _his_ fault that he's been tortured. “Yes.”

The anger inside Credence threatens to boil over again, but he holds it firmly at bay. He doesn’t need Newt seeing him like _that_ again, barely more than a mindless animal, hackles raised at the first sign of danger. He can still taste the blood of those men on the backs of his teeth. In the grooves of his molars. Right then he decides that he is well and truly done with this horrible, dismal place.

“Can you Apparate back, do you think?”

“Hm.” Newt’s brow furrows in a frown. “I think so. Yes, the situation does call for it.”

That doesn’t answer Credence’s question, really, but he nods all the same. “Then let’s.”

There’s a noise of assent at that, but Newt is barely on his feet for a few seconds before he begins to wobble. Luckily Credence is right there to steady him. He can feel the warmth of Newt’s body through his coat; it makes him want to press his hands closer, right up against that fever hot skin. He swallows hard.

“Or let’s not,” he says quietly, and the comment makes Newt laugh. His voice is still scratchy but the laugh is genuine, which brightens Credence’s mood considerably. He could _live_ off of Newt’s laughter, he thinks.

“No, not just yet, it seems.” One of Newt’s arms slings up over Credence’s shoulder, steadying himself. The other grips his case tightly. “Let’s just- let’s just get outside, shall we? And then into the case.”

They hide the suitcase behind some trash cans in the alleyway and, though the smell is rather awful, it’s nothing compared to the stench of that tiny room. Once they’re inside both of them begin to breathe a bit easier. The suitcase is charmed to emulate a day and night cycle, of course, and the light of a setting sun feels soothing against Credence’s cold skin. He turns to look at Newt and notices his cheeks are already beginning to regain their color. When Newt moves to reach for some dittany on the shelf of his shed, though, his normally steady hands are still shaking just hard enough for Credence to notice.

“Here, let me.” Their fingers brush together briefly as Credence reaches up to grab the herbs Newt had been looking for. Then he spreads the supplies out on the counter in front of him. “Um. You should sit down, maybe?” It feels strange, telling other people what to do, however gently. But to Credence’s surprise, Newt nods and does just that.

“Before anything else, we need to make sure everyone is okay,” he says. Credence is about to open his mouth to protest, as Newt is _clearly_ the first priority here, but the magizoologist will hear nothing of it. “Please.” The look in his eyes is desperate, and Credence knows if he refuses then Newt will simply get up and get the job done himself. Which will go _remarkably_ poorly.

It doesn’t take long for him to check up on the creatures, surprisingly. Unlike the outside of the suitcase, inside there’s no trace of the men’s attempt to break open the wards. Everything is intact. The most the attack did was spook a few of the more flighty creatures, including Credence’s beloved mooncalves. He takes a few extra minutes to calm them down, running his fingers through their soft fur, before moving on. On more than one occasion Credence finds himself soothing the creatures with quiet words, just as Newt has shown him. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “Mummy will be back to take care of you in a bit. He’s safe.”

The last biome he visits is the cold, barren tundra behind the mooncalf habitat. Just as it always has, the Obscurus floats peacefully in its bubble, untouched. Credence can feel his own Obscurus drawn to it, some sentient part of his magic longing to make contact with another of its kind. He’s not sure if the magic in the bubble is the same, anymore, after being deprived of its host. Though he’s curious to know more, Credence doesn’t dare ask Newt. The man’s unbridled enthusiasm when it comes to his work was noticeably curbed when Credence had first asked about the Obscurus’ origins. He’s made a point to not bring it up since then.

“Everyone’s alright,” he announces once he returns to the shed. Newt visibly relaxes at his words, slumping back in his chair.

“Right,” the man says with a sigh. He looks almost world weary, despite being only a few years older than Credence. “Now I’ll tell you how to make the dittany paste, and how to mix the potion as well. That will help with- with nerve damage.” Newt shifts uncomfortably, once again looking guilty at the mention of his injuries. Credence doesn’t understand. Hadn’t Newt just told him only weeks ago that no one deserves to be punished for being in pain?

He tries harder than ever to be gentle with Newt, then. The last thing Credence wants is for him to feel like it’s _his_ fault, everything that’s happened. That sort of feeling can gnaw at your insides and leave you emptied out. Hollow. When the guilt gets that bad, it’s all too easy to start believing that you deserve the pain. Credence knows that all too well.

With Newt to guide him, preparing the medicinal herbs is easy. The whole time he’s working, grinding the ingredients into paste, mixing others into a small cauldron Newt keeps in the shed, Credence tries to commit everything to memory. Newt hadn’t been joking when he’d said dittany was invaluable around here; it seems like one of them is always getting injured in some way. Credence figures he ought to know how to mix these sorts of concoctions, in case a day ever comes where he has to make one without Newt’s help.

Newt utters a quiet thank you when he’s handed the finished potion, downing it in one draft and grimacing. “I ought to find to way to add flavoring to this,” he comments as Credence begins mopping up the half dried blood on his face. “Or at the very least, a way to make it less foul.” He hisses in pain when the wet rag comes in contact with his head wound. Credence freezes, lest he put too much pressure on the tender spot.

The look on Credence’s face must be rather grim, because Newt’s next words are gentle, soothing. “It’s quite alright,” he reassures. “A little pain is expected, and copious amounts of blood, when dealing with head wounds.” He gestures to the bowl of paste sitting on the counter. “Now apply that to the wound. It’ll sting a bit, but it’s worth it in the end.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes as Credence works. The silence is only broken by the distant sounds of Newt’s creatures, and a few short, sharp intakes of breath as the paste comes in contact with his injuries. Apart from the gash in his head, he has marks around his wrists from the coarse rope used to restrain him, and a cut across his right cheek. It looks like an abrasion, like he was pressed against brick or concrete or--

Credence grinds his teeth. He needs to focus on _anything_ but the details, at this point.

Soon enough, Newt is fixed up. He cleans Credence’s hands of paste with a quiet _scourgify_ spell, pausing to rub his thumbs over the meat of Credence’s palms. It feels like the ghost of another touch he used to know so well, and it almost steals the breath right out of his lungs. _It’s not like that_ , he thinks firmly, and knows that it’s true. _Newt isn’t like_ him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” The confession is sudden, startling Credence out of his thoughts. Newt still has his calloused fingertips pressed to Credence’s skin. His eyes are downcast. “I should have brought you with me.”

“It’s- It’s fine.” Credence looks away too, then. Neither of them are very good at communication, he muses. “I can understand why you… why you maybe wouldn’t want me around.”

 _That_ gets Newt’s attention. He feels the man’s gaze coming to rest on him and keeps his head bowed. “That’s not it at all. Absolutely not.” Newt sounds _fierce_ again, his freckled hands moving up to grip Credence’s wrists and tugging lightly. A silent plea to come closer. To look up.

Credence does. Newt’s eyes are clear now, no longer unfocused like they had been in that room, and he feels relief wash through him. Newt’s lips are chapped, too. He wants to- he wants to _kiss_ them better, Credence thinks abruptly, and feels a flush creeping up his neck at the thought.

“Remember, months ago, when I told you I had known someone like you?” Newt says slowly. “Someone who had been punished for their magic?” When Credence nods, he continues, “That person is the one who had the Obscurus inside them. The one I keep here in my case.”

Though he had figured as much, the confession means the world to him. Any time Newt chooses to open up to Credence, especially concerning painful memories like this one, he feels special somehow. It gives him just one more opportunity to help Newt, the way Newt has helped him so many times over.

“I met her in Sudan. She was only eight years old, and her village had locked her up because her magic was beginning to mature. They were _killing_ her.” Newt looks away, deep in thought, his jaw tight. “But then when I tried to help, when I tried to separate the Obscurus from her, she- she died. In the end, my lack of foresight is what killed her.”

There are a hundred retorts Credence can think of for that last sentence, but he knows better than to voice any of them just yet.

“So you see,” Newt continues haltingly, “y-you can understand why I’ve been a bit, ah, overprotective. I didn’t want you to be exposed to anything until you were absolutely ready for it, until I was absolutely certain that I hadn’t made a mistake and that you wouldn’t be ki-” Newt’s voice falters, and Credence can feel his heart squeezing tight in his chest. It takes several beats of silence before Newt seems confident enough to speak again.

“You may be hurt in some ways, Credence, but you’re not fragile,” he says. His eyes meet Credence’s again, watching him intently, and Credence is sure that his very soul is bared under that gaze. “In fact, you’re remarkably strong. You know that, don’t you?”

It takes a moment, really, for the words to sink in. Once they do, all Credence can manage is, “oh.” And then, “ _Newt_ ,” soft and just a bit broken, but it’s perfect that way. Without thinking he’s leaning forward to press his lips to Newt’s in a kiss that’s almost painfully chaste. The man tastes a bit like blood and bitter potion but under that he’s _warm_ . Credence hadn’t realized that anyone could _taste_ warm, until Newt.

When they pull apart and Credence’s eyes flutter open, the first thing he sees is the bright, blinding smile on Newt’s face. The smile that Newt is directing at _him._ And just like that, Credence knows that he is in love.

The third time Credence disobeys Newt is not the last, but afterwards, he no longer feels the need to keep track.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!
> 
> Oh, hey, cool thing I want to mention: I'm a Huge Fucking Nerd so I did waaaay too much research when I decided on Credence's wand. Mahogany, according to Harry Potter wandmaking info, is a wood that denotes protectiveness, which I thought was perfect. But most important is his wand core, which is kelpie hair. Now the Ollivander we know doesn't use kelpie hair anymore, but his father did. It's been largely abandoned as wand core material because it's often considered to be "substandard" and not nearly as promising as the wand core materials Ollivander currently uses. I like the idea of this wand just sitting in the back of that shop, gathering dust, largely forgotten, until Credence comes along and it chooses him as its master. So much for substandard, eh, with a wizard like that? Underestimated but incredibly powerful. 
> 
> SO THERE, PROOF, I'm ridiculously dorky and need.... to calm down....... with this fandom......... see you in the next fic, friends!


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